


here is your answer true

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crying, D/s, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Eldritch Abominations, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hand Feeding, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Misgendering, Multi, Other, Praise Kink, Prostration, Safewords, Slavery, Take me instead, Tentacles, Torture, Triggers, agony beam, altruism kink, foot kissing, humans in chattel slavery to nonhumans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-25 12:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Based on maculategiraffe's series "it won't be a stylish marriage", and won't make a lot of sense without having read that."You want John to win against his human in some supernatural dog show?""Sounds more like a pie baking contest," John says, which is entirely unhelpful.Daisy asks John and Harold to help her rescue humans in need. Harold is difficult and John is a very good boy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maculategiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [there is a flower within my heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382473) by [Maculategiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe). 



> The misgendering refers to Harold consistently referring to the Eldritch abominations as 'it', regardless of their preference or presentation. 
> 
> The BDSM is between Harold and John, the dubious consent is between the humans and Eldritch abominations.
> 
> So many thanks to maculategiraffe for creating this verse, letting me play in it, and cheerleading as I wrote; and to Code16, for the usual reasons and some extra inspiration.

There isn't really such a thing as an opportune time for communications from... _it_... but for John's phone to chime while John has his head in Harold's lap is particularly unpleasant.

Of course, there is no certainty that _it_ is behind the text. John hasn't given _it_ a dedicated ringtone, and Harold has refrained from offering. John becomes anxious thinking about Harold and _it_ interacting in any capacity, even at such a remove that Harold's refusal to be reverent couldn't possibly hurt either of them.

The soft chime, however, had John stiffening in a way that a message from his coworkers would not, and nobody else has this number.

Harold sighs and nudges John. "Go ahead and look."

John darts a look up at Harold, then gets to his feet, wandering into the kitchen to check the text. Harold settles back on the couch, missing John's warmth next to him.

When John returns, his expression - or lack thereof - has all of Harold's internal alarms ringing. "What is it?" Harold asks, hating to enter the conversation, and yet that has to be better than putting it off.

Wooden-faced, John says, "She wants to meet us. Both of us."

Harold blinks and swallows his first three replies. "I see. When?" The restraint pays off when the tension in John's shoulder eases up somewhat.

"As soon as we can get there."

Harold nods sharply. "I see." He would prefer to eat dinner first. Whatever they're heading for, it's likely that John would need the energy, and Harold isn't raring to go when _it_ calls.

However, John would rightfully point out their reliance on _its_ good graces, and Harold has little desire to watch John be anxious throughout the meal. If anything taxing is required of John, hopefully _it_ would provide a chance for him to refuel.

The thought of relying on _it_ to provide for John sits in Harold's mouth like ashes, but he is not enough of a hypocrite to ignore the fact that in fact they've both been relying on _it_ all along. "Let's go, then."

John loses an additional bit of tension, and his lips taste of gratitude when he briefly kisses Harold on their way out. 

~~

"Absolutely not," Harold says. 

John squeezes his hand and directs a warning look at him. Harold pays it no mind. This is him being polite.

"You might let me finish speaking," it says coldly. "Did you imagine I thought you'd jump at the chance to be shown off? I have another reason for asking you to participate."

"Let's hear it," John says before Harold can reply, his voice low and urgent, a plea directed at Harold.

Usually it would be quite effective, but at the moment... "We are not going to put you as stakes on a bet. Certainly not a bet with," Harold swallows the term he was about to use, "another one like 'Daisy'."

"Do you really think I would even suggest it if I thought I might lose? Oh, never mind," it says, and slaps a phone down on the table. "I thought I'd spare you the unpleasant details. So much for that."

Harold watches the video play out without expression. He desperately wants to look away, and yet he knows he has no right. John, as much as he tried to conceal it, had gone through similar ordeals at the hands of their previous kidnappers. Harold doesn't know the person on the screen, can't even hazard a guess at their gender; they spend most of the video curled up in fetal position. 

"You brought down the agency," John says, voice urgent. "The one who had us." He's about to offer himself up, the ridiculously galant man that he is, Harold knows it. Harold isn't even sure he can bring himself to stop John from abasing himself to 'Daisy', if it means an innocent's safety.

He will not, however, allow John to be _wagered_. No matter what kind of leverage _it_ has.

"The individual you saw is not in the hands of any agency," _it_ says. "He possessed by, to quote Mr. Finch's charming usage, another one like me."

John pauses. "I thought being in pain made people taste all wonky."

'Daisy' grimaces. It's a misleadingly small, simple expression, which only drives home to Harold how wrong everything about _it_ is. "Some like the flavor. At any case, the person you saw isn't the charge-- the one being fed on. They're the focus."

By the sudden blanking of John's face, that means something bad. "Damn. What did the charge do?" The victim blaming is not becoming, and Harold will have a word with John on that front. 

"As far as I can tell, the charge is on his best behavior," 'Daisy' says. "When he is very, very good, he can win his focus a respite. The charge himself, however, suffers no torture." _It_ takes in John's wince and amends, "No additional torture. Which, of course, only creates worse anguish in him in turn. Some of us find the resulting emotional mixture potent and desirable. A delicacy, if you will. I find it abhorrent on both aesthetic and moral grounds." It stops and gives them a significant look.

This time, Harold is willing to play along with _its_ game. He crosses his arms. "Do go on."

"Among those like me," 'Daisy' says, "I'm considered something of an eccentric. A... hippie?" 

_It_ looks at John, who nods and murmurs, "Cage-free, cruelty-free fealty, fresh from the source." _It_ beams at him. 

"Right. But even so, my way of looking at things - of keeping humans - is gaining more popularity, which I hope you'll agree is a good thing compared to some of the alternatives." _It_ gestures at the phone. "The video you saw is... something of a backlash, against my methods. Some people see us treating our charges better and seem to think they must hurt their charges worse, to somehow restore order." It throws its hands up. "The person who owns those two isn't at my social standing, but he's gaining traction. I want to stop him."

Harold does not look at John. He knows what John would say, had known since before _its_ explanation. "So in order to lower his," Harold uses the pronoun with distaste, "social standing, you want John to win against his human in some supernatural dog show?"

"Sounds more like a pie baking contest," John says, which is entirely unhelpful.

'Daisy' grins at him, ever indulgent in a way that unfailingly raises Harold's hackles. "I can't deny that there's some resemblance to both of these. I have no doubt that John will place in the top five, if not win first place - and I think the chances of that are quite high." 

And there they reach the sticking point, since as _it_ told them, in order to enter the contest _it_ must set John as collateral. If John places low, he will be taken away from _it_ and given to a higher ranking abomination. And Harold must weigh the knowledge that if they don't act, a human being would be tortured, and the risk that if they do, John will be owned by the selfsame torturer. 

"You may have a little time together to discuss it," 'Daisy' says, ever so generous. _It_ leaves the room, much to Harold's relief.

Now Harold faces John. And before John can say anything, bring up any of the values they share, the ones that made John shine to Harold so highly, Harold says, "I don't know if I'm brave enough to risk this."

"Sure you are," John says. "You're the bravest man I know." He says it so easily, like it's an absolute natural constant: Harold is brave.

Nonsense. When it comes to this, to losing John to pain that John has already suffered so much of, Harold is an abject coward. "I don't know if I could bear losing you," he says, with aching honesty. 

For a long moment, John is silent. Then John looks at him again, and Harold trembles, because he knows that determination and where it'll end. 

"You made me what I am," John says. Harold opens his mouth to argue, but John shushes him. "You did. Everything about me that's good, you brought to the surface." Which clearly means those properties were part of John _all along_ , but John doesn't allow Harold to make that objection. "And being the person who can help, but doesn't - who just turns his back to somebody that's hurt - that's not the person you made." John looks at him with steady blue eyes. "You'd be losing me anyway, and this way is a sure thing." 

The very worst thing is that John is both entirely wrong and miserably right. Harold would not love John any less if John were to turn away from this, to give up this one chance to sacrifice himself. But it would go against John's own perception of himself, break him in the same way that becoming a killer did.

It does damage to ignore the hurts of the world, even if you pretend otherwise. Harold would know. 

"All right," Harold sighs, finally, irritability masking everything else he's feeling, and lets John go to his knees and press his forehead to Harold's knuckles. Harold pets his dark hair and tries not to think morbid thoughts about leaving for battle and last times. 

~~

"I would've thought you'd fight harder about attending yourself," John says, shuffling back up to his feet. 

Harold glares at him. "I was focusing my energy on something rather more important than that." 

'Daisy' breezes back into the room. "So that's settled?" It waits for John to nod before continuing, "That's good. Now we have to discuss preparations. I would have to mark Mr. Finch."

Harold is aware that 'Daisy' put some kind of spell over John to protect him from its fellow abominations. This does not make the idea of wearing its mark any less disgusting. John also tenses up at the idea, which worries Harold further.

"John," _it_ says, with a hint of warning, "I wouldn't ask if it weren't necessary. I'm asking this exactly because I know Mr. Finch's idea of manners to those like me. Or lack thereof. If they know he's mine, he might reflect badly on me, but they won't disembowel him for rudeness."

"Won't it be better if he just stayed home?" John asks, and Harold gives him an incredulous look.

"If he did, that would have a severe negative impact on your possible score. I understand your reluctance - I'm hardly enthused about the idea, myself - but I don't see a way out of it." _It_ shrugs. "And before you ask, he has to be conscious for the process. Otherwise the mark won't set properly." 

John's jaw works. He darts a look at Harold, then goes on one knee before 'Daisy', as though proposing.

It sighs and tilts John's chin up with two fingers. "This is not something you can take on yourself, John. Believe me. But you can be there for him, if he'll allow it."

John doesn't get up, shuffling to Harold instead, and Harold is torn between irritation and embarrassed satisfaction at seeing how comfortable John is on his knees. "It hurts," John says, without preamble. "It's not that bad, but it's not fun, either. It won't take long."

Harold raises an eyebrow. "Are you under the impression I'm unfamiliar with pain?" But when John gets up, Harold allows John to lead him to the bed, to hold his hand even as he rankles at 'Daisy' seeing them together. 

John is correct. It hurts, and it's over quickly enough, and that's all Harold cares to think about the subject. 

~~ 

They are released to go home and get some rest. The competition is set to be in two days, so they have that long to get their affairs in order. 

Harold doesn't have much going on at the moment, truth be told. He dismantled one organization of exceeding unpleasantness the previous week, and since then has been mostly doing regular maintenance and idly probing for vulnerabilities. It's as good a time as any for 'Daisy' to come knocking; which is to say, it's not, but at least nothing important is interrupted. 

They finally eat their dinner, brush their teeth and go to bed. Harold lies on his back and feels John next to him, breathing and warm and alive. Gingerly, Harold turns to his side. He whispers, "I don't suppose...?" John kisses him in reply, sweet and deep. 

John never initiates and never says no. This was a fact of some concern to Harold for a while. All they've been through, in the last few years, has not left John with the strongest sense of his own consent. Which has not been very strong to begin with, as far as Harold can tell.

When he told John of this worry, though, John first looked confused, then relieved. "It doesn't matter," John said, and kissed him.

Harold allowed it, but only briefly. "This is exactly what I mean. Your consent _does_ matter. A great deal."

John said, "You have it. Everything you want to do to me, I want you to do it," as if it were that simple. It took some work to make him elaborate, and then he said, "It's not-- this isn't me trying to sacrifice myself, Harold. I genuinely feel better when I'm making you feel good than when I decide what I do with my body."

"Has it occurred to you that my desire to have sex with you is dependant on whether you feel pleasure in it?" Harold asked, exasperated.

"I do feel pleasure in it," John said. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

It left Harold confused and more than a little upset, until he noticed that John did initiate other things - kneeling at Harold's feet, mainly. Kissing them, at times. That certainly seemed to give John a certain measure of peace, which was lovely to see. If John felt sexual availability was a part of the submission he wanted to give Harold, Harold didn't want to refuse it. 

John has a safeword, now, which Harold has yet to hear him use outside of check-in exercises. John shivers under Harold's hands, with what Harold hopes is eager excitement. John doesn't say no, but sometimes if Harold turns to him and waits, John will do nothing more than kiss him. 

Tonight, John doesn't stop there. He unbuttons Harold's pajama shirt, slowly and carefully, giving Harold every chance to stop him. Taking such paradoxical care with Harold's consent. He pushes down Harold's pants so they can touch skin to skin, puts his leg between Harold's so that Harold can rock himself to finish on John's scarred, muscled thigh. 

He takes John's cock in his hand afterwards, kissing him to taste the breathy sounds he makes for Harold. After coming, John licks Harold's hand clean, then moves to gently lick Harold's cock the same way. 

"There are wet wipes in the bedside cabinet," Harold mentions, like he frequently does when John does this. 

"Those would just clutter up landfills. Think about your carbon footprint, Harold." John's eyes gleam in the darkness. Harold doesn't want to argue with John tonight, to tell him that he doesn't need to serve Harold this way even if it sets Harold's blood racing. 

John rests his head on Harold's shoulder, inviting contact. Harold pets John's hair with his clean hand. He feels John's eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone. "You should get your hair cut."

"Yessir," John says, drowsy. Trusting enough to fall asleep with Harold petting him this way, when a thoughtless tug can have John cowering and whimpering. It would be terrifying, really, if Harold didn't love it so much.


	2. Chapter 2

The next two days are uneventful. John buys groceries and cooks. Harold reconfigures their cranky router to actually put out a signal. There is time on the couch, close together. 

Then a car stops outside, and John's phone chimes.

Before they go, John lays a hand over Harold's. "Please," John says. "For my sake. Try to be polite?"

It's at least in part for John's sake that Harold _can't_ be polite. But he says, "I'll try." 

'Daisy' has blindfolds in the car, and a cool expression suggesting it would not hesitate to knock Harold unconscious if he refuses to wear them. Harold puts the damned thing on. He needs to pick his battles carefully.

The drive takes a while, long enough that they stop for a bathroom break in some gas station in the middle of a field. 'Daisy' takes off their blindfolds for long enough to use the facilities. They don't see anyone else before they're back in the car, blindfolds on. Harold shuts his eyes under them - it helps, a little, with the combination of mild motion sickness and the nausea he's feeling, that he always feels around _it_. He tries to sleep, concentrating on John's warmth radiating from seat next to his. 

Finally, the car stops and they can remove the blindfolds. They are parked in front of a large house: two or three stories, as well as Harold can judge from the outside, a deep porch, columns marking the entry. There's plenty of cars lined up against the driveway, but 'Daisy' has found a place very near the entrance. 

"Leave your shoes here," it instructs as they climb the three small stairs to the porch. There are plenty of shoes waiting there already, in neat rows. Harold notes that 'Daisy' does not remove its own shoes. 

'Daisy' knocks, and the doors open. There isn't anyone in the grand echoing room inside. 'Daisy' walks in as if it owns the place, which Harold doubts it does. It leads them to a door on the left, which opens to reveal a den furnished in mahogany and leather. A little ostentatious for Harold's taste, but at least it's warm inside. 

That turns out to be quite necessary, as the next thing 'Daisy' does is produce a thin white tunic which it instructs John to wear. John puts it on without a peep, folding his clothes and giving them to 'Daisy'. "I have to go to orientation now," it says. "You can sit in with the others, inside." It gestures at a second door, opposite to the one they came in through, and leaves.

Harold looks at John. He makes the tunic look good, much like he does most clothing choices Harold has seen him wear. It helps that John is completely unselfconscious, no matter what ridiculous garment he's forced into. For himself, Harold is grateful to be able to keep his vest and suit jacket, even if he suspects he'll soon be overly warm. 

"Let's see what the others are in for," John says, walking toward the door which 'Daisy' indicated. Harold follows him, shaking his head. 

The other room has no chairs. What it has is a group of people, most of them sitting on the ground, of various ages, genders, and ethnicities. Harold's attention is drawn by a pair of identical twins, holding hands, who are surely in their teens. He supposes abominations can no more be tried for statutory rape than they can for slavery. About three-fourths of the people in the room are clad in white tunics identical to John's. Everyone in the room is either barefoot or in their sock feet. 

One of the people standing is a woman with graying hair, in jeans and a t-shirt, bearing a clipboard. She waves to Harold and John. "Over here. This is your first time, right?"

"You mean, in the competition?" John asks. "Yeah."

"Yep. You guys sit down over here, we'll go over the schedule in a bit."

John complies. Harold remains standing, as he has no wish to aggravate his hip and back by sitting down on the ground. Nobody says anything to him. 

A few more people - three singles and two couples - enter. Once they are settled to the clipboard holder's satisfaction, she pages through her papers and says, "All right. First thing, we have the presentation. Each of the charges will go in front of the judges, one at a time. Your owners are going to be there, but they're not allowed to speak or touch you. Nobody else will touch you, either." There seems to be a collective relieved sigh around the room. 

"After that, there'll be time to settle into your rooms - charges all room with owners, and focuses if they're here. Then there'll be dinner, and a mixer for owners, charges attendant. The library is free for any human who gets their owner's permission to be there, so a lot of focuses end up in there in the events where they don't participate." Harold's beginning to wonder when he is supposed to participate, whether _it_ couldn't have just left him home.

"Tomorrow, breakfast will be at eight," continues the woman with the clipboard, "Humans have an hour to eat. Then the judges will witness owners feeding, with focuses attendant if they're here. Your owners will give you specific instructions for what's required of you, but generally it involves showing off physically and mentally. Good luck with that. Then there's lunch, and after that, group feedings. Those are optional, but anyone hoping for a top ranking will attend those. In the evening, the winners and losers are declared, and the top five winning owners take their pick of the bottom five losing charges. You can take a printed copy of the schedule from me, and I recommend letting the focus keep it if you're here as a pair. Any questions?"

There are. One young woman in a tunic asks the clipboard bearer what she means by feeding. A man about John's age asks about winning conditions. "The charges will be judged on how strong a source they are, as well as purity, obedience, and flavor." She says the last word without blinking. 

Some of the people in the room seem considerably more nervous. Possibly not all owners - Harold shudders with disgust at the word - have been as considerate as _it_ , telling their captives what to expect. 

"If you're in the competition and in the uniform, you're a charge," says the woman with the clipboard in reply to another question. "Focuses keep the outfits they arrived in. All right, the presentations are about to begin. When they call out your owner's name, step up and go through that door. I'm Debra, please feel free to come to me with any questions you have."

The door opens. Harold stares at the figure in it, despite the watering of his eyes. The figure in the door is good at pretending to be human, almost as good as 'Daisy', but the difference is still blindingly obvious to Harold.

The name 'Daisy' is called out fairy early, and John goes quickly. To be examined like a racehorse by a pack of gamblers, no doubt. Harold walks closer to Debra, but doesn't try to break through the small crowd surrounding her. 

"So you're a focus?" one person of indeterminate gender asks her.

Debra shakes her head. "Charge. I'm not in the competition, though, and I don't exactly have a focus. It's a long story, I'll tell it later if there's time." 

More information is exchanged, most of which Harold knows already - little things about the abominations which he heard from John, or researched independently. The latter category has very little in it. Attempting to research supernatural entities results in incredible amounts of dreck. 

About half the room's residents are speaking to Debra, asking questions. The rest are scattered, either pairs clutching one another tightly or individuals in white tunics, staring at the walls. Harold makes out the charge they are here to rescue only a minute before the abomination at the door opens it and says, "Amos Widdershins." At the words, the charge straightens and heads toward the door. His face has a particular blankness that Harold feels bodes nothing good.

John comes back at that time, and Harold goes to him. "It was fine," John says, forestalling concern. He cuts his eyes at the charge Harold was just looking at. "Found the number, huh?"

The word sends an unexpected pang through Harold. For the people they've lost, and the Machine, and the people still alive but forbidden from knowing John and Harold are, for the safety of everyone involved. For the life they had, once upon a time, where the objectives were simple and clear: find the number, save a life. 

That life was always a precarious thing, however, and Harold has much to be grateful for in his present existence, most especially his closeness to John. "I found the charge 'Daisy' hopes to win, yes."

"I should clone his phone," John says, with a fond smile for Harold. "For old times' sake." 

"I doubt anyone can hide a phone in this outfit." Harold gestures at John's tunic. "But I do wish we could hear what they're saying in there."

John shrugs. "Didn't say much while I was in there. Just basic orders. Turn around, raise your hand, step left. No idea what they were looking at. Daisy smiled at me. Didn't do anything else that I saw." 

Something is nagging at the edges of Harold's consciousness. A moment's concentration, and he realizes what it is. "The charge we're interested in was here alone. His focus might not be at the competition at all." Another thought occurs. "Even if you win the competition, 'Daisy' will only be able to take the charge, not the focus."

John's expression is complicated. "I'll ask her. She's not careless with details usually. Maybe she has a plan."

~~

The room they're expected to stay in is on the second floor. Harold drags himself up the stairs. John knows better than to offer help or stare at Harold, thank goodness. The room has a large bed, and two mattresses on either side of it. "You can push them together," _it_ says. Harold notes _it_ doesn't offer to give them the bed, or even help John with pushing the bed and moving the mattresses together.

(Harold also knows better than to offer his help when it's not wanted, but it's different. 'Daisy', to the best of Harold's knowledge, is not disabled.)

_It_ leaves very soon afterwards, instructing John to change into whatever he finds in the armoire. _It_ says nothing to Harold, and Harold returns the favor.

John tests the mattresses on the floor. They're solid, thick. "Will you be okay sleeping on these?"

"I think so." Harold doesn't look forward to getting on them or off them, least of all while _it_ watches, but he'll manage. 

John kneels next to him, putting his face to Harold's hip. "I'm not _it_ ," Harold says, even as he cups the back of John's head. "You don't have to placate me."

"Who said this is for you?" John's voice is somewhat muffled in the cloth of Harold's pants. "I figure you won't want to cuddle while Daisy watches, that's all."

Harold cards his fingers through John's hair. "Maybe I will. I wouldn't want it dictating when we can and can't touch each other."

John, thankfully, refrains from mentioning that it _does_ dictate many things about their lives. Harold appreciates that. 

The armoire turns out to contain jeans and plain t-shirts, similar to the ones John used to wear when 'Daisy' held them captive in its house. John changes into them just before _it_ returns. 

They go to dinner with John arm in arm with _it_ , Harold trailing behind. _It_ leaves them at the entrance to what must be a dining room. Inside there are several large tables, where the people Harold remembers from the room earlier sit. On a table in the back there is a pile of disposable food trays. 

There are a couple of seats left empty next to their number. Serendipity. Harold looks at John, who nods at him minutely. "Go sit," John says. "I'll get us food."

The chairs are wooden and high-backed. The table appears to be solid wood under a disposable plastic tablecloth in a plaid pattern. The number is digging into his meal with efficiency but little enthusiasm.

When John brings their food, Harold can see why. The food is barely a step above airline food, chicken in some sauce Harold can't identify and rice with carrots and peas that clearly came from a can. John tucks in with no appearance of minding the food. _We're ordering in when we get home_ , Harold thinks, and picks the least unappealing chicken bit he can find. 

Almost as soon as they start eating, the number finishes his own meal and gets up. "Well, this was useless," Harold says under his breath. John chuckles, and subtly knocks his shoulder against Harold's. 

After dinner, Harold consults the schedule. It has the house's floor plan printed on the back. Harold squeezes John's hand. "I better leave before _it_ comes back."

John's expression is complicated. "Maybe you better wait. Ask her if she doesn't mind you going there."

Harold shakes his head. He has no intention of listening to 'Daisy' anyway. Asking would be redundant. 

He finds the library quickly enough. It helps that many people are also making their way there from the dining room. There are chairs here, for a mercy, and Harold settles in one.

Most other people are sitting in chairs or on the floor, but Harold's attention is taken by one who is pacing. He's youngish, in his thirties perhaps, with unkempt brown hair. He looks... agitated.

Harold considers asking him if he's okay, and scratches that. How could anyone here be okay? Instead he approaches him and says, "Do you need help with anything?"

The man's eyes gaze past him, unseeing, for a moment before snapping to Harold's face with frightening intensity. "You were just at the dining room, weren't you?" Harold nods. Come to think of it, he doesn't recall seeing this man before. "Did you see a guy there, blond, blue eyes, about my age, military posture?"

That describes their number perfectly. With a sinking feeling, Harold nods and says, "Does he answer to some...one... calling himself Amos Widdershins?"

The man's eyes widen. "That's him. That's the sonofabitch. Oh my fucking God." He stops abruptly, collapsing into a nearby chair. Harold stands beside him, at a loss how to respond. "I mean, Widdershins is the sonofabitch. Alec... I guess he's a sonofabitch too. But not the same way. Alec's the guy I was talking about," he adds, unnecessarily.

"I see," Harold says. "And you are?" 

"Scott." His mouth twists up into something that would resemble a smile if one squinted. "Also here under the authority," he says in a sing-song voice, "of that sonofabitch."

"I gathered. I'm Harold, here under the auspices of Daisy." 

The last few words come out heavily laced with sarcasm, but Scott doesn't seem to mind. He just blinks at Harold and says, "Daisy?" incredulous.

"Yes, I also find that name ridiculous."

"No, that's not what I meant." Scott waves his hand, as though to dispel the notion. "Daisy, the one who let her slaves go live in farm somewhere?"

"In a city somewhere would be more accurate," Harold says, "unless you're talking about other people it held captive." There might be any number of those, for all Harold knows.

Scott shakes his head. "No, she only had one couple. The sonofabitch was pretty clear on that." He meets Harold's gaze. "We're here to beat you by any means necessary."

Harold's mouth goes dry. "Same here, I'm afraid." He looks at Scott again. "Were you at dinner?"

Scott shakes his head, a sharp motion. "Sonofabitch had me fed early. He won't let me see Alec." He looks at Harold. He has green eyes, very intent. "If you see him, will you please tell him on my behalf not to be an idiot?"

"I certainly could. Do you think it would help?"

Scott sags. "It wouldn't, would it." He sighs. "There's this thing - when they do bad shit to you, and it's really fucking awful, and then it suddenly all stops. And just for a moment, you feel - better. But then you realize. That if it's better for you, for him it must be...." he trails off.

"Unbearable?" Harold suggests, softly. 

Scott's eyes squeeze shut. "Yeah. Except the stupid bastard tries to bear it anyway. Hell if I know why."

Harold's chest squeezes in sympathy. "I do know the feeling, as it happens." That gets Scott looking at him again, surprised. "Not with 'Daisy'," he says. "Before her. We were held by... never mind, the organization no longer exists. But the experience was much like you describe."

"Shit." Scott rakes a hand through his hair. "Fuck. There's so much Godforsaken awfulness in this world. And then you meet someone who's just _good_ , you know? And then all the worst things happen to him. And he lets them, because he is fucking impossible and thinks he'll somehow save others if he does. That it would be worth it. Why does he have to be such a fucking idiot?"

That question, perhaps with less profanity, Harold has asked himself frequently. He even has something resembling an answer. "Would you love him as much if he wasn't?"

Scott stares at Harold, aghast. 

Harold blinks at him. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling wrong-footed. "Did you not know you loved him?"

Scott's mouth opens and shuts. "Well, fuck. Way to make a bad situation worse, me. I win a prize and it's called being a dumbass." He buries his head in his hands. 

"I don't suppose it would help to be told he loves you back," Harold says, badly out of his depth.

"No, I knew." Scott's voice is muffled by his hands. "I wish I didn't. It just makes everything worse." 

Harold has no idea how to offer him comfort. "I'm sorry," he says, for lack of a better thing to say.

"Hell. Yeah, so am I." Scott wipes his face with his sleeve. "Fuck it. I'm going to sleep while I can." He walks to the back, where a padded bench provides a possible sleeping surface. 

~~

The library's selection is fairly poor. All Harold finds are 80's thrillers and bodice rippers. Talking with the other inhabitants of the room would probably be more interesting, but after the conversation with Scott, Harold is extremely hesitant to approach any of them. He spends the evening idly leafing through a worn paperback copy of Battlefield Earth. It's not very engrossing. 

Eventually, Debra comes in ringing a bell. "To your rooms, everyone. If you need help remembering where you're staying, ask me." Harold goes, only darting a glance at Scott, who is still crumpled on the bench in the back. 

John is already in the room when Harold arrives. _It_ is not. Harold blinks to see eyeliner smeared on John's face. "Oh goodness. Does _it_ usually have you wear make up?"

John shakes his head. "One of the judges likes it, apparently." He proceeds to tell Harold about the judges, of whom he'd seen more during the mixer. "There's three of them. I only got one name, Ekaterina - she's small and skinny and when she tried getting close to me Daisy almost snarled at her. The other ones are an older woman and some guy who looks like an accountant."

That's not a lot to go on, but it's something. Harold shares his own conversation with Scott. "And did _it_ have anything to say about our issue with getting Scott away from this Widdershins figure?"

John looks grim. "She said she had a plan, didn't want me to worry about it."

That was distinctly unhelpful. Harold sighs. "I suppose we may as well get some sleep." Harold is struck by sudden worry. "Is _it_ likely to wake you up to, to feed?"

"Very unlikely." John seems amused. "She'll be feeding on me tomorrow, and she'd want me to keep my strength up for that."

The faith John has in that thing is remarkable, and not very pleasant for Harold to realize. Before Harold can make any reply, John gets himself onto the mattress and pats the space next to him with an inviting expression. 

The day they had did not leave Harold feeling amorous. He is, however, almost pathetically grateful for John's proximity. John feels like the one true thing in this house of madness, and Harold is so lucky to be able to hold him close.


	3. Chapter 3

"We need to talk about the feeding," John says over breakfast, voice pitched low. 

Breakfast is very like dinner, except for the food (cold donuts and terrible coffee) and the absence of Alec. Harold finishes his donut as he nods at John to continue.

"You're supposed to be there for feeding." John's shoulders are hunched, just a little, and he's staring forward. 

"Would you rather I wasn't?"

That gets John looking at him, his expression troubled. "Wouldn't you prefer that?"

Harold considers. "I'd prefer for you not to have to do this," he says. "Since you do, being there for you is the least I could do."

John sighs and shakes his head. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. I can't do it if you're gonna stand there judging me. It'll throw me off my groove."

"I'm not judging you," Harold says, stung. "You have done nothing but be brave and kind, and ridiculously self-sacrificing - which I might not think is the best idea, but I'm hardly judging you for it. If anything," he adds, "I'm judging _it_."

John does not seem eased. "Yeah, that's not much better. I don't see how you can judge Daisy without feeling bad about me doing what she tells me."

Harold doesn't see how that reflects badly on John, who was put in this situation without his consent, and prepares to say so. 

John forestalls him by saying, "It's harder to concentrate if I know you're standing there feeling sorry for me."

It's a valid point, Harold must concede. At the same time, "I don't see how I can bring myself to feel anything positive about you--" he chokes back all the descriptions that come to mind, and settles on, "doing what _it_ tells you. But I never thought obeying _it_ reflected badly on you."

For a long moment, John studies his face, intent. Finally he says, "So you won't be disgusted by my following Daisy's orders?"

"I might be disgusted," Harold says, reluctantly honest. "But never with you. Never think that."

"I guess I can work with that." John takes a deep breath. "Right. We better get to the showroom."

~~

The showroom appears to be a repurposed ballroom. People walk in pairs and triads, arranging mats on the floor. Harold spots what looks like a St. Andrew's cross. The place looks like a cross between a yoga class and a BDSM dungeon. 

Harold blinks, and looks around him again. At least half of those walking around are not people. That would be obvious enough given a moment's thought, even if Harold couldn't tell, but he can. 

They make him sick. Not just figuratively; being in their presences gives Harold constant low-grade nausea. That must be a cumulative effect. When Harold first learned to spot the abominations, the subtler ones, he could note their presence without anything but apprehension. 

He wonders if John knew that some of those who hurt him, back when they were held by the agency, weren't human. Harold first learned to spot the ones who would hurt Harold, then allow John to offer himself up in Harold's place. They liked to show Harold footage of what John was forced to do, and say, and endure. Later, they became easily recognizable to him - a taste in the back of his throat like milk beginning to curdle, tiny dissonant notes when they spoke, just at the edge of his hearing range. 

A hand closes around his wrist. Harold starts, but it's just John, looking at him all concerned. "Harold?"

"I'm fine," Harold says, which probably broadcasts that he's not. Well. There isn't much he can do at this point. The nausea becomes slightly worse when he considers everything he saw happen to John, wondering which parts of that _it_ might choose to visit upon him. 

Speak of the abomination: _it_ shows up in front of them, in all its pencil-skirted glory. "We have a little time while everyone is setting up," it says. "Mr. Finch, you can go and look at the other contestants if you're interested."

Harold is decidedly not. However, John follows up _its_ words with such puppy eyes that Harold sighs and goes anyway.

He's not sure what he's supposed to be looking at. He sees the twins from the first evening together, one lying belly up on the mat and holding up the other, who is lying straight and facing him, with his legs. On another part of the floor, a man with a tremendous mustache is standing on hands and knees, while a woman with her hair in a long glossy braid sits on him delicately. 

On the far side of the ballroom, he spots Alec, and walks towards him. Might as well relay the message he was given. Another man, presumably Scott, is standing across a shiny abstract metal landscape from Alec.

As he approaches, Harold slows down. The metal landscape resolves itself into something like an obstacle course. Scott, on its other side, is unnaturally still, with a vacant smile across his face. Harold shudders.

The shudder becomes a flinch when he looks again at the obstacle course, and realizes every part of it that might serve as a hand- or foothold is lined with blades and spikes, sharp enough to break skin.

"You're hers, aren't you," says a voice behind him. Harold startles and turns around. It's Alec, and he nods at 'Daisy'. 

Harold rankles at the idea of belonging to _it_ , but he's not about to burden Alec with his own relatively minor troubles. "I am," he says, a little stiff. He tries very hard not to stare at Alec, or Scott, or the obstacle course. It doesn't give him much to focus his eyes on.

"Don't take it so hard," Alec says. He sounds, morbidly, almost amused. "This is no big deal."

"You do realize," Harold says, low and urgent, "that he'd never want you to do this. Least of all for his sake."

Alec loses expression. "I know. That's why this is easy."

Harold can't help it. "Easy?" he says, in a rising tone.

"Yeah. Just me in there, and him out here. Practically a treat." Alec doesn't seem the least bit prepared to acknowledge that what he just said is blatantly insane. 

Before Harold can answer, Alec stiffens. "It's time," Alec says, toneless.

Harold turns to walk away, incidentally in the direction Alec is looking. He doesn't have to work hard to deduce who among the crowd is this so-called Amos Widdershins. There aren't many abominations in that part of the room. Only one is looking at them, a figure like a cardboard cutout out of an old-fashioned menswear magazine. _It_ looks flat, like someone stamped the world into two dimensions where it stands. When _it_ moves, it feels like the room itself is blinking, like stop-motion in reverse. _It_ smirks, obviously pleased with the discomfort it's inflicting on nearby humans. 

Harold beats a hasty retreat. 

Back on the other side of the ballroom, 'Daisy' has John on his knees in front of it, tilting his chin up to look at it. 

Looking at _it_ might be a walk in the park compared to 'Widdershins', but it's still not pleasant. Harold directs his attention to John, instead. The contrast hits Harold like a fist to the gut: John is smiling at 'Daisy', the same way he used to smile before blowing up vehicles with a grenade launcher. 

'Daisy' diverts its gaze from John for long enough to tell Harold, "Please stand over there, Mr. Finch," indicating a place near it and John, not close enough to touch but close enough to easily see everything that happens between them. Harold goes. He doesn't feel inclined to argue at the moment. 

A trio of abominations approaches them. Two of them, affecting the appearance of a tall man and woman, make Harold's eyes water to look at them. The third is, as John mentioned, small and skinny. Looking at 'Ekaterina' is marginally better than looking at the other two. 

"John," 'Daisy' says, "show some humility."

John prostrates himself in front of it, kissing its shoes diligently. Harold looks away, uncomfortable. 

This is an act that John seems to enjoy with Harold. Harold isn't sure whether to be glad 'Daisy' doesn't force John into anything he might find inherently distasteful or resent to see this mockery of a loving gesture. 

In his peripheral vision, he sees John slowly kissing up _its_ ankles, to _its_ knees. _It_ shifts, and does something with its clothing so that it can part its legs. John nuzzles at the juncture of those legs with every appearance of enthusiasm. Harold is uncomfortably warm. The room smells like ozone and too many people close together, like sweat and sex. 

He stares resolutely at the floor while John drives _it_ to moans, not once but several times. 'Ekaterina' seems vaguely interested. The other two, as far as Harold can see, are leaning close enough for the proximity to be awkward. Harold does note that 'Daisy' is grabbing John by the shoulders, not by the hair. It's a small enough consideration to be thankful for, and yet. 

Finally, 'Daisy' pushes John away. "John," it says, still out of breath, "position."

John squats so that his thighs are parallel to the ground, knees apart, back leaning forward, hands straight before him. 'Daisy' holds up something and shakes it; it jingles. Some kind of cat toy, a ball with a bell inside. "Hold this," 'Daisy' tells John. "If it's too much, let go of the ball, or break position, and I'll stop." To the other abominations, she says, "I don't often use pain on him. I find it dilutes the flavor. But he can bear it very well, if necessary. How much should I use?"

Harold doesn't hear any words, only feels a prickling to the back of his neck, his hairs all standing up. 

'Daisy' shakes her head. "I'll give him twice that." Harold has a sinking feeling that 'Daisy' is using human words for his and John's benefit. "He can take it." 'Daisy' sounds awfully sure. 

'Ekaterina' perks up, bouncing in place. "Ooh!" 

The only way Harold can tell what happens next is by the tensing of John's muscles. The position is hard to hold by itself - Harold's muscles ache just looking at him, and he has no idea how John isn't falling over - but that doesn't account for the draining of blood from his face, or the way John grinds his teeth. He doesn't make a sound. John's fingers are white around the ball. 

It lasts forever. Harold forces himself to breathe carefully, evenly. There is nothing he can do, no interference to make John suffer less.

The words feel empty of everything but cowardice. 

Finally, John breathes out a ragged sigh. 'Daisy' pries his fingers gently off the ball. "You can sit down, John. Good job." John slowly sags to the ground. 

For a moment, there is silence. It is broken by 'Ekaterina' saying, "Damn." 

There are a few more minutes when there is no sound of whispering, but there is the feeling of someone speaking behind one's back. Then the judges nod and walk away. 

Harold goes to John, heedless of anything and anyone else. Thankfully, _it_ doesn't try to stop him. Harold wants to kneel next to him and hold him up, but he doesn't want John distracted by worry about Harold's knees and back. He braces himself and stands next to John, allowing John to lean his weight against Harold's legs, his hands careful on John's head.

"You were fantastic," 'Daisy' says, voice warm. 

Harold snaps at it before he can think better. "Was that really necessary?"

"Yes." _It_ looks at him, implacable. "You saw Ekaterina. She has... particular interests."

"I see." He runs his hands over John's hair, gentle, gentle. 

_It_ sighs and turns to leave. Just before it goes, it says, "You seem to forget, Mr. Finch, that everything John just did, he did for you."

Harold closes his eyes. The knowledge jabs and twists in his chest. He doesn't hear 'Daisy' walk away. 

"She doesn't mean it like that."

Harold looks down at John, who is groggily returning his gaze. "Like what?"

"She's not trying to rub your face in, in the fact that I love you." John sounds so tired. Harold cups his shoulder. "She just wants you to know there's no competition, between you and her. Not when it comes to me."

Without meaning to, Harold's grip on John tightens. John isn't lying. Whether or that makes the situation better or worse, Harold couldn't say. "Are you a mind reader, now?"

John chuckles, a hoarse sound. "Just paying attention."

Of course. Harold's been reading up on post trauma, and long-term abuse. Hypervigilance is a common symptom, and hyper-awareness of others' mood. Very logical, when one's very life depends on said others. Harold presses John's face to his good hip, touching John's back through the thin tunic. John gives Harold just a little bit of his weight, a yielding that feels phenomenally good.


	4. Chapter 4

They're given a while to go to their rooms and rest, which Harold is grudgingly thankful for. He lays John down on the mattress, not reclining himself but sitting next to him. Keeping watch, as meaningless as the gesture might prove now. 

Instead of going down to lunch, 'Daisy' brings them food to the room. "Hush," it tells John, who did not audibly protest. "This is an investment. I want you to save your strength. You're going to need it."

Ah, yes. The group feeding. Harold suppresses a shudder. 

'Daisy' gives him a sharp look. "You could stand to be more helpful, Mr. Finch. John is performing beautifully," it spares John a smile that would look warm on a human face, "but it's not for any help you're giving him."

"Daisy," John protests. 

It waves him off. "I'm not going to punish him. I merely hoped he would prove more cooperative since we have a common interest, here."

Harold might have felt it was more of a common interest if it truly freed Alec and Scott, rather than move them from one abomination to another, although admittedly a more lenient one. 

'Daisy' raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. That makes two of them. 

Still, Harold supposes _it_ has something approaching a point. "I can't change my emotional state," he says. "What can I do that would help?"

'Daisy's' expression turns thoughtful. "It might be better if John couldn't see your face," it says. "The physical contact seems to be doing him good, as well." It glances at John. "His head in your lap might be an effective position. We could even put up a screen, so you wouldn't have to see the others feeding on him."

The idea of watching closely while John is fed upon by a group of abominations is hardly appealing. But short of leaving John to face this alone, Harold doesn't see that he has any alternatives not involving an uncomfortably close view of the proceedings. "I won't need a screen." He can do that much for John, and not look away. 

~~

For the second round, they're escorted back to the ballroom, which now has beds in it: ornate things of dark wood, with carved feet and headboards. "Breaking out the fancy stuff," John murmurs. Harold wonders if he'd noticed how subpar the abominations' efforts had been so far.

There are eight beds, all told, when earlier there'd been dozens of contestants. Harold puts the thought of other participants out of his mind. He can't help them now, except by doing his best to help John.

"Here," John says, evaluating the headboard of the bed they're led to with a critical eye. "Have some pillows." Harold arranges himself.

At _its_ instruction, John takes off his clothes before he gets on the bed. "You're allowed to orgasm," _it_ tells John. "I know you'll do me proud."

John smiles at it, then climbs on the bed. Harold despairs of ever understanding the man. 

Slowly, like smoke gathering, abominations come to stand before the bed. John is with his face down in Harold's lap, his hind side exposed. Harold is very careful to be conscious of the pressure his fingers exert on John's skin, his scalp.

The first abomination in line, with the appearance of a young man with floppy hair, gets on the bed. It runs a hand down John's spine. Harold wonders how much of John's brief, almost unnoticeable tensing up is due to John worrying about Harold's reaction.

Well, at least there's something he can do to put John at ease on this front. "Shh," Harold says, quiet. "You're wonderful." The abomination doesn't look up at them. 

Soon enough, the abomination is fucking John. John lies unmoving, but his hand curls up around Harold's ankle, as if seeking support. Harold keeps up a low stream of supportive murmurs, not allowing his voice to change as the abomination moves inside John, and pets John's hair with exacting care. 

The abomination finishes, and another takes its place. It's not until the third abomination is on the bed that Harold notices John shaking. Harold fiercely wants to call the whole thing off, and is rather unhappy that 'Daisy' did not see fit to give John any kind of safeword for this activity.

When this ends is not up to Harold, though. This is not about him.

John shudders at something the abomination does, Harold can't quite see what from this angle. Nor does he want to. After a moment's fury, Harold realizes that John isn't reacting to pain. John is hard. Harold can't see his cock, but he knows John's body well enough to recognize arousal from pain - and for pain, he has such a vast and devastating database. 

It makes Harold wonder at the permission 'Daisy' gave John. Harold has seen John orgasm under duress, forced to in ways that were far more pain than pleasure. It had not occurred to Harold, foolishly enough, that anything John did with _it_ might leave him wanting to come. 

John makes a tiny sound, and for a short, shameful moment, Harold is enraged. His anger is soon enough doused. It's never John he's angry at, and while he has a good many reasons to be angry with the abominations, their dubious claims on John's affections and his body do not meet the mark. If there is pleasure to be had, and John will not be further distressed by being caused pleasure - which Harold has also seen happen - then John's enjoyment is a net positive. 

There is enough about this situation to make John fret. Harold refuses to add senseless jealousy to that mix. 

It does leave Harold conscious of how the abominations treat John's body. Not very roughly, perhaps at 'Daisy's' request, and not entirely as a sex toy, but very much as a _thing_. They touch John with curiosity but no affection, and no attempt to make this any more pleasant for John. That John is enjoying himself at all is a testament to how durable and adaptable he is.

Harold whispers it in John's ears, obscuring the parts he doesn't want John thinking about. "You are incredibly strong, to be taking this. Do you feel good?" John nods. "Is it upsetting you?" Hesitation, then headshake. "Excellent. It's marvelous that you're feeling good. I always want you to feel good, if you want to."

It makes John shake harder, and Harold feels dampness on his pants. Possibly sweat, likely tears. Harold isn't worried: he'd reduced John to tears a number of times, and every time John clung to him and thanked him and seemed happier for the experience. Harold makes soothing noises and continues petting John.

The fifth abomination has John gasping loudly, and without meaning to, Harold looks at it more closely. It adopted the appearance of a middle-aged woman, and it's fucking John with something much longer and thicker than the average penis, green-gray in color. It pushes its member inside John steadily, shoving into him until Harold feels more queasy than he usually does around abominations.

In his lap, John is shivering and making noises and - Harold blinks as he realizes - humping the bed. He's not moving into the abomination fucking him, but he appears to be enjoying this as well. "Goodness," Harold says faintly. And firmly follows it up with, "You're doing so well, John. It would make anyone proud to have you."

John presses his face into Harold's thigh and sobs audibly. Harold wishes he could kiss him. 

It wouldn't be correct to say that Harold loses count after that, but he tries not to mark the number of abominations helping themselves to John's body and, presumably, to his devotion. Finally, after what seems like hours, 'Daisy' says, "One more."

That one feels like it takes more time than all the others combined, but finally it, too, is done, and retreats from the bed. Harold sighs relief, and prepares to hold John in the aftermath of this. 

He's not prepared for what he sees when John rises from his lap. He's not prepared for John's expression, tear-marked and shining like a stained glass window, so beautifully alight with everything good inside him. Harold is never prepared for this, and never will be, no matter how many times he sees it.

"Harold," John rasps. 

Harold cups John's face in his hands. "What is it? What do you need?"

John looks at him, emotion fairly pouring out of him, but Harold still has no idea what he wants. John moves to look at 'Daisy', beseeching.

"He's not a mind reader," _it_ says - amused, of all possible reactions. "You'll have to tell him what you want, sweet John."

John directs his attention back to Harold, who can't be upset with _it_ because he's too busy focusing on John. "I want you to fuck me," John says.

"That would have to be painful," Harold says, taken aback and shocked into honesty. 

John nuzzles his shoulders. "I know. Want it." Then he straightens back up. "Unless you don't want to." John gestures at the room. "I know this isn't your idea of a romantic setting."

It's very much not, but if John can manage to be fucked here, there's no reason Harold can't manage to fuck him. "It's fine," Harold says. Then he hesitates. "That is, if the relevant parts cooperate." He's not as young as he used to be, and John is correct that the surroundings are not ideal. 

"You leave that to me," John says, already moving down the bed. Harold is half dismayed to watch him move, as obviously tired as he is, and half uncomfortably aroused by John's willingness to do this for him even now. Especially now.

John is very good with his mouth. In short order, Harold's body is not only cooperative but eager.

He nudges John to move off and lie face up on the bed. Harold takes his time settling between John's legs. They very rarely have penetrative sex: Harold finds it strenuous and doesn't want John to feel obligated to take all the work on himself. When they do, though, it is something that lingers in Harold's mind for a long time. 

There's no need to prepare John after everything that passed today, but Harold checks anyway, finds John slick and open. He consciously suppresses any inclination to wonder what is causing the slipperiness. 'Daisy' has been careful with John's health, so far. That will have to suffice. 

Beneath him John arches, gorgeous and distracting. "You're beautiful," Harold tells him, to see him preen. The contrast between John's naked form and Harold's clothed one - he only unzipped for John to be able to touch him - is marked, and appealing. 

But he needs to know something. "John. Why did you ask for this? You must be near your limit, if not past it."

John's eyes are open, searching out Harold's. "Not past," he says. "Just reaching it." He twines his hand with Harold's. "Wanted to get there with you."

Harold's heart skips a beat, and he squeezes John's hand. "Is that something you want, to be driven to your limits? To go there," with someone you trust, someone you love, someone who loves you, "with me?" 

"Yes," John groans, loud and unashamed. "Kiss me."

Harold braces himself on one hand, the one clutching John's, and reaches for John's cock with his free hand. He can just about lean close enough to kiss, though the strain in his shoulders is making him quiver. John takes no time at all to come, contracting around Harold, shallowly mouthing Harold's lips. Harold comes a few strokes later. 

He lets John take his weight, confident John can handle it. John hugs Harold and kisses the top of his head.

A blanket is laid over them. Harold turns and tries to muster a proper glare to launch at 'Daisy'. _It_ returns a haughty look and says, "I don't want John catching cold." _Its_ voice softens. "He did very well."

"Doesn't he always," Harold says, exasperated and fond and embarrassingly in love.


	5. Chapter 5

John is lightly snoring under Harold. He fell asleep very soon after they finished, clinging to Harold.

"I could carry him back to the room," 'Daisy' says. Harold grimaces. "Or we could wake him up to walk himself."

A mental image of John staggering to the room flashes across Harold's mind. He disengages from John, zipping up under the blanket, and laboriously gets off the bed. 'Daisy' picks John up without any appearance of effort, still wrapped in the blanket. He lies in its arms like an unholy variation of a pieta.

"He's fine," _it_ says as they're walking down the hall. "Just tired. He worked very hard."

"Hm." Harold breathes out. He struggles to accept the relief the reassurance brings, rather than letting it drown in resentment. "So he did."

In the room, _it_ sets John down - on the bed, which Harold has yet to see _it_ use. "Stay with him," _it_ says. "I need to attend to other matters."

Harold lies down on the bed beside John. Even in his sleep, John seems to seek out the heat of Harold's body, shuffling close. Harold takes John's wrist in his hand, gratified to feel the pulse thrumming there. 

~~

John is awake by the time 'Daisy' returns. He seems distressed to find himself in the bed at first, until Harold says, "She put you here. Clearly she wanted you to rest properly."

John doesn't seem completely convinced until 'Daisy' swans back in. _It_ tilts John's face up and kisses him lightly on the mouth. Harold doesn't gag audibly, and he thinks that's as kindly as he can react under the circumstances. 

'Daisy' isn't even upset by the lack of deference, as far as Harold can see. "They're announcing the winners now. Would you like to come and see?"

Harold wants to protest - John is in no shape to be traipsing about - but he has to admit to some investment in the results, and he won't deny John the opportunity to attend, if he'd like. John does like, and they make their way back up the hall. 

The ballroom is now full of plastic chairs, the kind that stack up, arranged in rows in a semicircle. 'Daisy' directs them to sit in the back, and goes to the front itself. 

In the center of the semicircle stands Debra with her clipboard. She waits until most of the chairs are occupied to say, "Let us all rise in honor of Her Splendor."

Harold is too confused to react. John pulls him to stand up, and helps Harold keep his balance as the center of the room seems to warp inward. The curved space bounces back, and Harold can just about make out a humanoid form in the middle of an explosion of light. 

The brilliance fades, a little, and the humanoid form remains like an afterimage. Harold can't make out its features. His eyes are watering.

So are Debra's, shining so Harold can see them from four rows down - no, she's crying outright, tears streaming down her face as she beholds the abomination that entered with awe. Debra goes to her knees, offering up her clipboard like a knight offering his sword. The afterimage takes it from her.

There is more of that feeling that signifies the abominations communicating with one another for a while.

Finally, at a signal from the afterimage, Debra rises to her feet again. She wipes her face with her sleeve, unselfconscious, and sighs as the afterimage dissipates. "Her Splendor has left us. You may sit. She blesses the competition, and all contestants, and thanks everyone who participated. You have brought color to Her house. With Her approval, and the input from the judges, I will now announce the winners."

Fifth place goes to the underage twins, fourth to two women Harold hasn't noticed before, third to the woman with the long braid and the moustached man. "As for second and first place," Debra says, once all the other winners have collected their ribbons and left the stage, "we appear to have a tie! Between...."

Harold closes his eyes, even as he knows what he's about to hear.

"...Amos Widdershins and Daisy."

A murmur goes through the crowd, the inaudible kind the abominations make. The humans are quiet.

'Widdershins' stands up. "I do not cede," it says. "And you... 'Daisy'?"

Daisy stands up as well. "I need a moment to consider," she says coolly. 

She-- _it_ makes its way to John and Harold, and nods towards the hall. They follow it there.

John looks miserable, which is to say, he has no expression at all except for the tensing of his jaw. "I'm sorry," is the first thing he says as they all come together.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Everything is going exactly according to plan," 'Daisy' says. 

Harold blinks rapidly. "Excuse me?"

It bares its teeth at Harold in an approximation of a smile. "I will, Mr. Finch, but don't expect me to make a habit of it." To John, it says, "You asked about rescuing the focus. By refusing to cede first place to Amos Widdershins," it says the name with almost as much distaste as Harold feels, "I agree to have you enter a tie-breaker event. Whoever wins first place will win, in addition to their other spoils, both the charge and the focus of the person who won second place."

Before Harold can react, John says, "We're not betting Harold to that sonofabitch."

Harold turns to him, dismayed. "You seemed to be perfectly at ease with betting yourself."

John stares at him. "That was me. Now we're talking about you."

"Now we're talking about double standards, apparently," Harold says. He feels half out of his own body, unsure how he's come to argue _in favor_ of betting not only himself but John to, as _it_ is justly known, that sonofabitch. 

"It's up to you," 'Daisy' says. "Both of you. If either of you say no, I will cede, we will take second place and go home. No risk at all."

And no chance of saving Alec and Scott. Harold is thinking it; so must John. 

'Daisy' tilts its head in acknowledgement. "Incidentally, this would also mean no chance of saving whomever Widdershins wins - which, if we choose to enter the tie-breaker and win, I will win as well."

John looks at Harold, anguished. 

Harold sighs and takes John's hand in his. "If this is important enough to bet your life on," Harold says, "it is important enough to bet mine. That's how I feel. I can't force you, and I won't attempt to. But consider how I would feel if I knew innocent people suffered because I wouldn't take a risk." 

'Daisy' says, "John, I am completely confident in your ability to win. I wouldn't have come here otherwise."

"Fine," John says at last, abrupt and harsh. Saying yes to Harold, despite his own misgivings; Harold's heart twinges with regret. 

Not enough regret to change his mind, and in any case 'Daisy' is already walking back inside.

~~

The tie-breaker is to occur the next morning after breakfast. Apparently 'her splendor' is content to have its house overrun for another day.

Harold leaves John in the room and goes in search of a shower. He is feeling decidedly sticky. The bathroom is a shared one, but there's no line right now. According to 'Daisy', many humans and the abominations holding them captive have departed already, which might explain it. There is plenty of hot water, for which Harold is grateful. 

He makes his way back to the room still wet behind the ears, pausing as he sees someone walking towards him with a gait that speaks eloquently of pain and fatigue.

Not someone; Alec. Of course. 

As the distance between them closes, Harold wracks his mind for what to say. Nothing good comes to mind, and so he ends up blurting, "I'm sorry," when he and Alec cross paths.

Alec stops. "Are you." His voice is very flat. "Care to enlighten me as to what you're sorry for?"

"The entire situation." Harold gestures, helplessly, at their surroundings. "I suppose offering my sympathies would be more accurate."

"Save them for yourself." Alec's face is devoid of expression. "You're going to need them."

A thought occurs to Harold. "If you lose tomorrow, you'll no longer belong to 'Mr. Widdershins'," he says. "You could throw the--"

Before Harold can finish the sentence, he finds himself pinned to the wall and several inches off the ground. Alec, who is doing the pinning, still has no expression at all. His endurance is impressive. "Competition," Harold finishes, with what little breath hasn't been knocked out of him.

"You think so, huh." Alec speaks very evenly, enunciating the words like he thinks Harold's hard of hearing. "You know what happened during group feeding today?" He shoves Harold a little harder into the wall, presumably for emphasis. "Widdershins had Scott lie on the bed. You know that thing they do, when they just... pour pain into you? He did that to Scott. And if my per-for-mance," he almost sings the word, "was very, very good, then he stopped. Just for a little bit. That's what I was doing today.

"So no. I'm not risking putting a toe out of line. I don't know this 'Daisy' of yours, but I know Widdershins, and I know what's going to happen to us if I don't meet his expectations."

"You know what's going to happen if you do meet his expectations," Harold says. "Is that really worth fighting for?"

With Harold at a slight elevation, he is eye to eye with Alec. Alec meets his gaze and says, "Scott lives. That's worth fighting for. That's worth anything."

"Not to him," Harold says, with effort and conviction. "He wouldn't say his life is worth yours, or even your pain. Not to this degree."

Alec's eyes narrow, and his grip tightens. "Why don't you tell me more about what he'd say, since you're so knowledgeable."

"I know," Harold says, struggling to breathe, "he doesn't. Want pain. For someone he--"

Alec brings their faces so close together that Harold can feel his breath on his face. "That he what?" The words are a dare, and have a slightly manic edge to them.

Harold didn't promise this man honesty; nevertheless, he's going to deliver it. "Loves."

Abruptly, Alec lets go. Harold wheezes; the landing knocked the air out of him again, but otherwise he's none the worse for wear. "Save your bullshit for someone who's buying it," Alec says, but he's not moving out of arm's length. He looks at Harold as though he crawled through a thousand miles of desert, and Harold's holding a canteen of possibly poisoned water.

"I'm afraid I'm not bullshitting, Alec." Harold wishes he knew the man's last name. Calling him by his given one feels inappropriately intimate. "It appeared to be a surprise to him, but it was obvious that he loves you and he agreed with this assessment when I shared it with him."

"It's not love." A muscle works in Alec's jaw. "It's-- Stockholm syndrome. Stupid hero worship. I don't know what it is, but he can't love me. He wouldn't be dumb enough to do that."

"Love makes fools of us all. Besides, I could think of worse people to love than one whose love for him is potent enough to feed," Harold shudders, "those things."

For a moment Alec is still. Then he lets out a breath. "You know how I met him? He tell you that?" Harold shakes his head. "I was a grunt. The powers that be - not those assholes running the show here, the army ones - were doing experiments on us. Chemical warfare, biological, stuff to make the Geneva convention cry. I knew what they were doing, we all knew, and none of us dared say anything."

Harold can hazard a guess as to what happened. "Until Scott showed up?"

Alec nods. "He was - is - a reporter. Sharp as anything you please. Blew the whistle on those assholes in charge. Then they got him, too. They wanted to make him pay. I-- tried to distract them. Take whatever I could on myself, so they'd leave him alone."

Attracting the tender attentions of 'Widdershins', no doubt. The abominations do have a taste for martyr complexes. 

"If he'd said something then," Alec says, "then maybe I wouldn't think you're delusional. Or lying. Haven't ruled that out. But he's the one Widdershins likes to hurt, and Widdershins wouldn't have so much as looked at him if it weren't for me."

That's just silly. "Has enduring pain to lessen his made you love him any less?"

Alec flinches. "Stop talking about love, god fucking damnit. What the fuck do you even know about us?"

"Very little, indeed," Harold admits. "Only what you yourselves told me, and a little I can deduce from -- shared experiences." Alec doesn't reply, but he's listening, pale eyes intent. "I know that, placed in a similar position to Scott's, I was grateful for every time I could give relief to - my own partner. I know for a fact he would let himself be tortured to spare me pain; any pain I suffer certainly isn't for lack of his trying to spare me. I only tell you what Scott told me, and what I've felt myself: he never wants you to hurt. He doesn't blame you, not for anything, because none of this is your fault."

Alec retreats, shaking his head. He ends up moving at something like a run by the time he disappears from Harold's sight.


	6. Chapter 6

Until the next morning, Harold is too tired to realize: “You didn't tell us anything about the tie-breaker event,” he tells ‘Daisy’.

“No, I did not,” it says placidly. They're eating breakfast in their room - or rather, Harold and John are eating, the same fare as yesterday.

A moment of pointed silence passes. John shoots Harold a warning glance and says, “If you told us what it involved, I'd really appreciate it," Suggestively enough that Harold looks away.

"Of course, John." _Its_ voice is very warm. "I suppose it's a little complicated to explain. I've heard it's best experienced."

"What is?" Harold asks before John can unsubtly kick him in the shin. 

'Daisy' pauses, considering. "The event itself is simple enough. The charge and focus are given time together, to act as they will. To ensure that the resulting display is... of interest to us, the focus is... well, I think the best way to put it is, the owner alters the focus's emotions and perceptions to be a little more like them. It is very effective, in my experience."

Harold recoils. He can hardly refuse now; surely doing so would only lead to 'Widdershins' winning them. He can't even argue without putting John in severe distress. "I suppose we have no choice," he says, voice tight. 

Even so, John casts a strained, worried look at him. Harold forces a smile. He suspects he doesn't do terribly well. "Can't we just break into Widdershins' house to steal them?" John asks, plaintively.

"I wouldn't advise that," _it_ says. It pecks John lightly on the cheek. "Eat up, and rest a little more while you can."

_It_ leaves Harold alone, which is as much Harold could ask for under the circumstances.

~~

This time, the ballroom is left mostly empty, with a single row of chairs on two opposite sides, about half of them occupied, and an intimidating array of implements and props on the sidelines. Harold recognizes most of them, and wishes he didn't.

"Sit," 'Daisy' says. "We'll begin once everyone has joined us."

The last to come in is 'her splendor', entering shortly after the judges and receiving a place in the middle of the row opposite the one John and Harold sit in. 'Widdershins' is on the same row as them; it nods at them cheerfully. Next to it, Alec and Scott both stare straight ahead, as if transfixed. 

"All right," 'Daisy' finally says. "Mr. Finch, I'm going through the process now. No, don't get up, you might lose your balance."

Harold sits rigidly as _it_ approaches him, shuddering when _it_ lays both its hands on his shoulders. He closes his eyes. 

He opens them.

The room is brighter than before, not in a way that hurts his eyes. 'Daisy' doesn't hurt his eyes, even standing right in front of him, little tendrils of light snaking from her form. As Harold casts his gaze, all the abominations seem-- different. Strangely beautiful, and ordinary, all at the same time.

The humans, though, are truly beautiful. More than half of them pulse with love, rosy red and sweet, overflowing from them. Harold tastes it, without meaning to, only the smallest sips imaginable. Each one is different, subtle variations that Harold can tell are fear, lust, anger. 

When he looks at John, he gasps. John is. John is....

_Abundant_ is the first word that comes to mind. And pure, sweet like spring water, clear all the way through with the simplicity of his devotion. The raised symbol he can see on John's chests satisfies and enrages him simultaneously.

"He's not quite himself," 'Daisy' is telling John. "And not quite me, or something like me. I can't say what he'll retain of himself and what will be changed. It is all very unpredictable."

And to Harold, _it_ says, "Stop drinking from John. It's not your turn yet." Harold grumbles, but he does stop.

Alec and Scott walk to the center of the room. Scott moves jerkily, like a puppet on strings, and Harold can see the deep blue thread linking him to 'Widdershins'. 

Alec is... strange. The flavor (Harold only samples) is certainly unique, a folded in on itself blend of misery, terror and abject longing. Not as powerful as John, but intriguing in its own way. 

"Alec," Scott says, "get me the collar with the spikes."

Alec goes, with perfect obedience. Harold hears the judges murmur approval. And yet, he can't bring himself to worry.

As soon as Alec kneels before Scott and waits to have the collar buckled, the spikes digging into Alec's throat, the steady flow of Alec's devotion gutters out like a candle flame. What's left behind is a glow like embers, smoldering away behind a thick layer of something Harold can't quite identify.

Ah, of course. Dissociation. Very reasonable, for someone in Alec's position.

Scott snaps out more orders. Alec fulfills them perfectly, to the letter, while feeling nothing at all. With every appearance of desperation, Scott kicks Alec, calls him names, orders him to abase himself. Alec does so. He does not resume radiating love. 

Finally, 'Ekaterina' says, "Um, I don't think this is working."

"A few minutes more," 'Widdershins' says. "I simply have to break through to him--"

"No, I think you broke him. He's busted." 'Ekaterina' shakes her head. "Can we look at the other one?"

The other judges concur, and now it's Harold and John's turn to stand in the middle of the ballroom. 

Now that Harold has permission, he can allow himself to focus only on John, and how beautifully his feelings radiate. "John," he says, and points to the ground near his feet. John kneels there, and rests his head against Harold's thigh. Harold's heart wells with affection and hunger. "You may kiss my feet."

John does, prostrating himself without a second thought. He pillows his cheek against one of Harold's shoes for a moment, nuzzles at Harold's ankle. Then he kisses, going as thoroughly as anyone might wish, ablaze with joy. One of the judges sighs.

Harold whiles away a little more time, revisiting familiar ground of acts they've done together in their home. He doesn't bother with props. John needs no accentuation. 

For a finale, though, he has something different in mind. Can't have the judges getting bored. 

At a word, John kneels at his feet again. He stares up at Harold, pupils wide and mouth parted. Even if Harold couldn't see his emotions he would be beautiful; as it is, he is incandescent.

"One last thing," Harold says, and reaches to grab John by the hair. 

Some part of him worries, but that worry seems small and meaningless. John is his. John has asked, begged to do anything Harold might want. John's obedience will extend to this, too: Harold knows that even in the throes of a post-traumatic response, John will perform wonderfully, and the mix of flavors ensuing ought to be spectacular.

But as soon as Harold's hand begins to tighten in John's hair, John says, "Pebble."

John's safeword. Harold freezes. Taken over by--

Himself, who goes to his knees beside John, frantically apologetic. "Oh my goodness, John, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

But even as he retains some sense of himself that has escaped him, Harold can still feel John's emotions, can understand the reactions of the judges as they gasp. 

John is _open_ , overflowing with not just devotion, but trust and relief. The taste of him is transformed into something utterly new. Harold kisses him, delirious with the amazement of it. 

"Wow," 'Ekaterina' says. "Wow. That, um, that was great. Go you for being original! Great move."

"Thank you," 'Daisy' says, with great dignity and smugness. "I believe my methods are demonstrably superior. Of course, I did have a very good specimen to work with."

"Seriously, the dynamic there, wow. I'll need to think about it more." 'Ekaterina' rises from its chair, tossing on the way, "Oh, right: Daisy, you win. My colleagues said so, so."

Harold did not hear them say anything along those lines, but there appears to be no disagreement and he is admittedly distracted. He clutches John's shoulders, clinging to John and his repeated reassurances that he's okay, he's fine, he's good.

"You are," Harold says, hoarsely, when he's regained some of his voice. "You are so good. You have no idea how much."

John snorts. "Harold, no offense, but I think you're high."

Probably Harold is; some kind of altered state, at the very least. "It's very curious," Harold admits. "I wonder how long it will last."

"I think this is about enough," 'Daisy' says, and Harold collapses into John's arms.


	7. Chapter 7

"Can we see them?" John says. It's not the first time he's spoken since Harold came to, but close. "How are they doing?"

They're back in their room, on the mattress. Harold doesn't know which of them carried him here, and he would honestly prefer to remain ignorant.

"As well as can be expected, and not yet," 'Daisy' says. "We have some further events before the winnings change hands - meanwhile, they are all in the custody of Her Splendor." It uses the name without a trace of irony. "She wouldn't hurt someone else's human. Traditionally, the humans wait here, but I thought you might prefer to go home in the meanwhile. I could take you there, and have you visit Alec and Scott once the formalities are all taken care of."

"I thought you had events to attend," Harold says, despite John's alarmed look.

"If you want, we could drive," 'Daisy' says, "but I would really prefer not to. I have a great deal of work ahead of me, and can't spare the time the drive will take. If you consent to be moved, that would be much quicker and easier."

Harold stares at John, who shrugs. "It was fine when she did it before."

Begrudging, Harold says, "I suppose we could let you teleport us."

"It isn't really teleportation," 'Daisy' begins, but if she says anything else, it's lost in the haze they walk through to reach their front door.

John looks behind them, where the room they stayed in isn't anymore. "Do you think I should have asked again to see Alec and Scott settled? Not to mention the other four. Whoever those are."

"I doubt that would be of much use," Harold says, but his tone is not as sour as it might have been otherwise. He is... tired of being riled up about 'Daisy'. That must be it.

And it is so very good to be home. Relief spreads through Harold as soon as he locks the door behind them. He breathes deeply, finally free of the nausea he'd been sporting for days. His everything aches, even with the extra painkillers he'd taken before they left.

First things first. Harold sits down on the couch. John shows some hesitation approaching him; "Wherever you prefer to be is excellent," Harold tells him, and John sinks to his knees beside Harold without another thought.

Harold fishes out his mobile phone, which now has reception for the first time since they left for the competition. He orders a meal without consulting John, whose head is resting in Harold's lap. He knows John's favorites by now, anyway.

They pass the time until the food arrives in silence. Harold is scrolling Wired articles on his phone. He hopes John isn't falling asleep: John should eat, and while rest would be good for him as well, Harold would rather John do that in bed.

When the delivery person knocks, however, John rises to his feet swiftly and smoothly. "I've got it," he tells Harold, who gets up anyway to move to the dining table. John comes after him, laden with boxes of sushi.

Harold clears his throat. "If you like, you could continue kneeling, and I could feed you."

John looks at him, eyes gone dark. "I'd like that," he says, voice low.

"Get yourself a pillow," Harold says, for the sake of John's knees - John's poor body has definitely been through enough these last few days.

Once they're settled, Harold feeds John and himself alternate pieces, careful not to drip teriyaki. Desert is chocolate cake; not exactly a staple of Japanese cuisine, but they are both in need of comfort food. John licks the crumbs off Harold's fingers.

Harold cleans both hands and John's face with a napkin, then guides John's head to his lap once more. He pets down John's neck, scratching his back gently through his shirt. After all this time away, there is so much work to do, and yet-- "I might go to bed early," Harold says.

"Sounds like a plan."

Harold showers, and instructs John to do the same. He wants to wash that place off their skin before they get into bed.

Under the covers, Harold reaches for John, who comes to him without hesitation. "How are you?" Harold asks, in a tone that brooks no argument.

John lets out a long suffering sigh. "I'm fine, Harold. Jeez."

John's definition of 'fine' could stand some recalibration. "You've gone through considerable difficulties the last few days. Not least of which," he adds with a sigh, "are due to you having to worry about my interactions with 'Daisy'. That must have put you under significant stress."

John is still for a short while. "Okay, and what do you want me to say about it? It happened, it's done, we're home. End of story."

It is very much not, but Harold has no idea how to continue this line of conversation without raising John's hackles. Not for the first time, he contemplates asking John to go to therapy.

Perhaps Harold should go, actually, if only to learn how to better support John. He makes mental note of that. "I suppose we can table this for now if we must. But I do have some questions."

John shifts in his grasp. "Yeah?"

Harold takes a moment to put his thoughts together. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seemed like there were aspects of our recent experience that you found-- positive." John stiffens, and Harold adds to say, "That's not a bad thing. If anything we can morally and logistically achieve brings you happiness, then you should have it. I'm asking in hopes I can replicate the parts you found enjoyable."

For a long moment, John is quiet. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Then would you allow me to hazard a few guesses?" He feels John's nod rather than see it. "You liked having me take you to your limit, didn't you?" Another nod, more hesitant. "Is that a thing you'd like us to try again?"

That gets John to pull away slightly, trying to get a good image of Harold's face in the relative darkness of the room. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," he says, wary.

"Neither do I want that, by definition." Harold feels he's entitled to a little smartassery. "You realize that by saying you want whatever I want, you're not giving me any concrete ideas. I don't mind," he says, gently petting the back of John's head. "But we may as well seize the opportunity to find out other things you enjoy."

John laughs, a frustrated little sound. "What, you're going to have a bunch of guys fuck me while you hold my head in your lap and tell me I'm good?"

"We could do that, if you liked. The logistics are complicated, but not insurmountable." Harold squeezes John, who has stilled again. "You can't be surprised that I'm willing to try. We did discuss it."

(After the first visit to Kara, John said, "And she asked me to fuck her."

"Did you?" Harold asked.

John recoiled. "No! I'm not-- she isn't--"

Harold captured John's hands. "If you did, I wouldn't hold it against you. You have enough to worry about, when you're with 'Daisy'. There's no need to be concerned about my response to what you do, while under her orders. Whatever those entail.")

"Jesus," John mutters. "Then you remember I told you I don't want anybody else, right? Orgies of the summer court aside."

More like the Unseelie, Harold does not say. Or Lovecraftian horrors. "I suspect the crux of the experience, for you, was less about the other participants and more about being overwhelmed in a sensory and sexual manner while I was there to support you. Which is something I am willing to do." Harold thinks. "We could use toys - a vibrating plug or something similar. Keep you close to climax, but never quite there, for a long time. While I hold you. How does that sound?"

Again, John says, "Jesus," but this time he sounds-- shocked into desire. Harold likes that tone on him. "Way to pack a punch, Harold."

"Mm." He cuddles John close, feeling John's erection hot against his thigh. "It does sound enticing. I like the idea of holding you while you shiver, work yourself on a toy or on my fingers, lie still when I tell you to. Your head heavy on my shoulder, taking what I do to you." His own cock is taking a definite interest in the proceedings.

John moans and rocks against him.

Harold scans through other acts he remembers. Not the pain, or the stress positions - even if John wanted those for themselves, they would upset Harold. "Do you wish we had penetrative sex more often? I thought I'd spare you the effort of doing all the work, but it occurs to me now that you might enjoy that, too. Exerting yourself for me."

The sound John makes is almost a sob. "Please." His hand rests on Harold's, fleetingly, as though he doesn't dare to be more explicit.

That's a thought. "You find asking for specifics difficult, don't you," Harold says. "What if I told you to tell me exactly what you want, in this very moment?"

John groans. "Your hand."

Harold doesn't move. "Yes? What about it?"

"Put it on me."

Harold pets John's shoulder, more amused than he should be at John's muscles rippling.

"On my. On my cock," John grits out, and Harold takes mercy and strokes John to orgasm.

John barely allows himself to recover before shuffling down the bed to take Harold's cock in his mouth. Harold keeps his eyes open, watching. "Next time," he gasps, "next time, I will - oh - work you hard enough that you are too spent to do anything afterwards, helpless as I take my pleasure with you--"

He makes more sounds before he comes, but none of them are words.


	8. Chapter 8

"Let me go alone," John says, when _it_ asks him to come look at how the humans -- the captives -- are settling in the homes of the abominations to whom _it_ gifted them.

Harold raises an eyebrow.

John takes his hand. "I mean, not to be rude or anything," he says, "but you had a hard enough time keeping from insulting Daisy during the competition. No reason to ruin a winning streak."

Harold disagrees with this at length, but at last John negotiates him down to joining him only to see Scott and Alec. "It'll be like sending me out to deal with numbers in the field," John says, low and persuasive.

"I'm already involved with Alec and Scott," Harold argues, and John sighs and allows Harold's presence for that trip. Harold has a strong feeling he is being managed, but he doesn't have the heart to fight John over that.

To reach Alec and Scott they must undergo another ride in 'Daisy's' car, although mercifully a short one. John holds Harold's hand until they arrive.

The abomination who welcomes them in wears the form of a woman about Harold's age. "I haven't spent much time with them," it says. "They're very jumpy, aren't they? I do hope yours can help."

Harold bristles, but keeps from saying anything, warned by John's hand squeezing his.

"They were treated rather horribly, in their defense," 'Daisy' says.

That's true enough, though Harold might quibble with the use of past tense there. 'Daisy' freezes for a bare moment, then tells the other abomination, "Is there anywhere I could have a minute alone with them?" gesturing at John and Harold.

The abomination opens a door to what appears to be a den, and closes the door behind them. "You have something to say, Mr. Finch?" 'Daisy' says, voice icy.

John's alarmed looks aren't any help now. Harold says, "You're well aware of my opinions regarding -- your kind -- keeping humans captive."

'Daisy' glares. "Do you think it would be better to release them into the world? Adelaide," who is presumably the other abomination, "does not have my reach or my power. What if that organization that had them tries to capture them again? Would that be better than staying here, where they're safe?"

"Yes," Harold bites out, knee-jerk, before he can reason through the rest of it. That 'Daisy' has the moral duty to protect them, if it has the ability.

He is, however, interrupted by John saying, "Why don't we ask them what they want?"

Harold turns to him. John is standing like he's locking his knees to keep from falling to the floor. He doesn't quite look defiant, but he does look determined, and slightly afraid. Harold very much wants to kiss him.

"Could you do that?" John asks 'Daisy'. "Let them go, if that's what they want?"

"That would be Adelaide's decision, at this point," it says, but after another moment where John looks at it, it says, "yes," exasperated. Harold can relate.

John says, "Then let's ask."

"I suppose we can discuss the option," 'Daisy' says.

~~

'Adelaide' leads them to a dining room where Alec and Scott are seated at the table, a chair separating them. Alec looks horrible, and Scott only a little better. John sits across from them. Harold remains standing. 'Daisy' says, "We'll give you a moment," and both abominations leave the room.

"How are you doing so far?" John asks Alec and Scott. "She taking care of you okay?"

"Well, there hasn't been any torture yet, so that's a definite step up," Scott says. "And I get to be around Alec without being turned into a zombie, that's always a plus."

"That's great." John leans closer. "Listen - there's a choice you need to make."

They listen as John details the plan he and 'Daisy' agreed on. It's not as... generous... as the settlement he and John have with it, but to Harold's mind it certainly beats being locked in an abomination's house.

Scott looks at John, brow creased. "Can I talk with you for a second?" He glances at Harold. "Alone?"

John shrugs. The dining room is connected to another room, where Scott takes John, leaving Harold alone with Alec. Alec's skin is ashen, and there are bags under his eyes. He keeps clenching his hands into fists.

Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable. "I wouldn't like to presume--"

"Hasn't stopped you before," Alec says.

Harold concedes the point with a wry smile. "True enough. I don't know you very well, but I am concerned that you might believe that by losing the tie-breaker, you somehow failed Scott. I wanted to reassure you that is not the case."

That gets him Alec's attention. "What do you know about it?" he snarls. It's probably just as well that there's a table between them.

"Did Scott tell you anything about the experience of the tie-breaker?" Harold asks, and Alec shakes his head. "I can't say if his experience was identical to mine. And yet, a large part of it was that -- I could sense other people's emotions, as the," he stops, "beings holding us do."

Alec stares down. "It's okay. You can say it. You don't need to lie."

Harold blinks. "I beg your pardon?" Even as he says it, though, he knows what Alec must be thinking. He has some experience with that brand of self-castigation. "Allow me to guess: you believe you somehow lost due to not loving Scott enough."

"You're gonna tell me I'm wrong?" Alec demands.

"I am," Harold says. "Love doesn't extinguish itself like a burnt-out candle in the span of sec. Your emotions were strong enough to call out to 'Widdershins'. They didn't simply stop."

"You don't know." Alec rises abruptly from his chair, pacing the room. "I was looking at him, at his face, and I felt _nothing_. I knew what Widdershins would do to him if I didn't perform, and -- I performed, alright. I just didn't care."

Harold pauses, considering how to reply. "Your emotions are still there, even if you can't feel them. If you don't believe me, I have plenty of literature on the subject of trauma and healing that I can forward you. I know they're there, and so does Scott." He holds his hand up when Alec opens his mouth. "And even if you stopped feeling love for him, under the circumstances, who can blame you?"

Silly question, since evidently Alec can blame himself. "Some love, if I stop feeling it because of a little pain."

Harold refrains from arguing the _a little_ part. "You were faced with someone who hurt you for their own gain. It was not the person you love; it couldn't be farther from him. Do you think you owe 'Widdershins' your affections?"

Alec recoils. "That's not the same thing." But he sits down, and his breathing is a little easier.

"I don't imagine 'Adelaide' is particularly charitable," Harold says, just for completeness' sake. "It wouldn't have taken you if it didn't think you could," he grimaces, "feed it." Alec grunts in acknowledgement.

When Scott and John return, Alec even participates in the conversation, albeit his contributions are short and stilted. 

Alec and Scott decide to stay, much to Harold's surprise. He does his best to hide his dismay, however. Alec and Scott do not need his disapproval on top of everything else, and after all, it is their decision to make. 

The abominations enter the room shortly after this. Harold wishes they'd at least pretend not to be eavesdropping. 

'Adelaide' steps into the room, and its eyes go round. "Oh, goodness." It blinks rapidly, looking from Alec to Scott. "What _did_ you do?" it asks 'Daisy'.

"I'm afraid none of the credit is mine," 'Daisy' says, with a smugness that belies its words. 

~~

Standing next to the car, 'Daisy' stops them before they enter. "I'd like a word first."

Harold doesn't suppose he could stop it.

'Daisy' narrows its eyes at him. "Mr. Finch, as I may have mentioned, you are an incredibly rude individual, and I find you very difficult to work with. No, John, let me finish: in spite of all of that - I am grateful to you, Mr. Finch. For your work today, and its effect on Alec. Your performance at the competition, as lackluster as it was at first, is half of what won us first place, and won Alec and Scott away from Amos Widdershins." 

It lets out a little sigh. "And I'm glad you presented, today, the option of allowing them greater freedom. That is not an idea that would have occurred to me without your interference - I only conceived of letting you two roam when you proved absolutely intractable otherwise. I'm not sure how, but it appears that merely giving them the choice lead to," it makes some gesture Harold can't parse, "positive effects."

Oh, yes, what a shock: humans respond well to being given simple choices and not being tortured. Truly a stunning revelation. 

But Harold shakes his head, and reluctantly says, "I suppose I might thank you as well. For -- creating circumstances that allowed us to help Alec and Scott, if nothing else."

'Daisy' made a little 'hmph' sound. "I'll take it." It crosses its arms. "I won't suggest shaking your hand, Mr. Finch. I doubt you'd find that pleasant." 

"I appreciate the sentiment," Harold says, with a heavy helping of irony. And with that, they get into the car.


End file.
